


Without Complexities or Pride

by hotleafjuice



Series: Sons and Daughters of Skyrim [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Families of Choice, Fantastic Racism, Friendship, Original Character(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Xenophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-22 14:15:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4838288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotleafjuice/pseuds/hotleafjuice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Elves of the Third Aldmeri Dominion won the Great War, but where does that leave the rest of them</p>
            </blockquote>





	Without Complexities or Pride

**Author's Note:**

> I don't have a beta, and I'm sorry about that.

_I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where._

_I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride_

_Sonnet XVII_

_-Pablo Neruda_

 

 

4E 200

Whiterun City

 

The first thaw of spring brought a riot of color to the landscape. Milillowyn didn't expect anything but endless snow as far as the eye could see. Visions of her beloved Valenwood flashed in her mind's eye, the colors of summer bleeding into autumn. It was heartening to know that she wouldn't spend the entirety of her visit swaddled in layers of heavy fabric.

The roads were hazardous traveling up from the Imperial City. There was roadblocks, foul weather, bandits, and patrolling Thalmor. More than one of the golden High Elves questioned her intentions about traveling to Skyrim.

Milillowyn had not realized how tense she held her body until the White-Gold Tower finally faded from view, then she practically melted into the seat of the carriage. She left behind an ocean of blood and a city still reeling thirty years later from war.

Bjorlam urged the horses onward, and Milillowyn watched as Whiterun City grew ever nearer, glowing gold in the pale morning sun.

The land was hilly here, and more than once the rocking of the carriage nearly upended her. Briefly, she wondered if Bjorlam would just keep driving. He wasn't an unkind man, but it was obvious that he wanted to maintain a certain distance from her. He saw to her needs in the most basic ways, just enough to call him professional. Milillowyn leaned over the seat rail just far enough to be heard over the wind. “Will we reach the city before noon?”

“Aye, lass. Good weather's been on our side this journey.” Bjorlam glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “Don't see too many elves come up this way. You with them High Elves?”

Milillowyn frowned, a deep furrow forming between her brows. “Gods take the Thalmor. I'm here to see Arcadia if you must know.” Bjorlam made a deep noise in the back of his throat but didn't say anything more. Milillowyn settled back in her seat, rearranging her robes for the hundredth time. She was ready for this trip to be done.

 

***

 

Whiterun City managed to be both larger and smaller that she expected. Milillowyn thought the city would spread further across the land, but instead it was built up to touch the sky. A steady stream of people passed by her, most of them carrying goods from the surrounding farms. The uphill trek helped stretch her legs after days spent bouncing around the back of a carriage.

One of the guards posted at the main gate stopped her. “Identify yourself.” His hand rested on the hilt of his sword.

Milillowyn pulled the hood of her cloak back so that he could see all of her face. Her short stature and large almond shaped eyes easily marked her as one of the Wood Elves. “I am Milillowyn Treesong. My business is with Arcadia Callidus, owner of Arcadia's Cauldron.” She hated how far she had to tip her head back to meet this man's eye.

“Carry on then,” he replied, taking a step back. “Remember that we're watching you, elf.”

She didn't need to be told twice. Beyond the gates, the city burst into life. The sloping streets were lined with buildings and merchant stalls. The acrid scent of heated metal rose up in clouds from the nearby forge. For a moment, she watched a tall Imperial woman hammer away on a silver-steel sword. The ringing filled up her head until her ears twitched in protest.

As agile as her people are, Milillowyn found herself barely dodging playing children, shops' assistants, guards, and ordinary citizens. She felt the weight of more than one pair of eyes on her. It made her painfully aware how long she had been on the road and how long it's been since she had a proper bath.

 

***

 

Arcadia's shop was right where she said it would be--central building, center marketplace square. The sign swinging in front of the door was faded, and she wondered if Arcadia would appreciate her repainting it.

The warmth nearly took her breath away as she stepped inside. The familiar scent of brewing potions and alchemical reagents was much welcomed. A voice called out from beyond a set of doors to her right, “Look around! I'll be right out!”

Milillowyn decided to make herself at home behind the counter. She was still shamelessly looking through Arcadia's ingredients and recipes when the woman herself showed up. There was a beat of silence then, “Millie! You're early!”

Milillowyn’s mouth curved into a smile. “Good weather and hard travel, my friend.” She let Arcadia fold her into her embrace. It was a good feeling, and she wondered if she clung a little too tightly to one of her oldest friends. “Y'ffre is good to let me see you again.” Milillowyn took a step back, noting the changes since she last saw Arcadia. She was still a lovely woman, aging gracefully with a face lined from laughter. “Your hair was more gold the last time I saw you.”

Arcadia grinned. “I'm getting old, Millie. I decided to color my hair a bit darker.”

“Old?” She shook her head, “As beautiful as the day we met.”

“I've seen fifty-one winters now.” Arcadia's expression smoothed into something a little more somber. “But you...” She ran a hand through Milillowyn's hair. “Still as red as the sun through autumn leaves.” She playfully tugged on a few strands. “And still obscenely curly.” Milillowyn laughed, batting her hands away.

Arcadia brewed a pot of strong tea and thickened it with honey. Milillowyn held the cup to her chest, her fingers curled tightly around the brightly painted clay. The heat and scent soothed her. “You do look well, Dia. Your letters didn't do your shop justice.” She smiled. “You always said you would have your own shop one day. I wish that I had come sooner.”

“It was a long way,” Arcadia replied with a dismissive gesture. “And Skyrim isn't the most... hospitable place. Especially for someone...”

“With pointed ears.” Milillowyn sighed. “I know. Though there really isn't anywhere I could go and be welcome except for the Dominion, and I would let Oblivion take me first. I had planned on staying for a good long while if that's alright.” There was a note of hesitance at the end.

Arcadia was one of those people that smiled with her whole face, mouth wide with deep lines, eyes crinkled, and nose scrunched. “Of course. Stay was long as you like.”

 

***

 

A couple of days passed before Milillowyn got to see the city in earnest. She spent time helping with organizing and cataloging stock, brewing potions, creating salves for backlogged orders, and generally making herself as useful as possible. Arcadia claimed she worked too hard, but she was not quite ready to brave the cold of Whiterun from both the weather and the people.

“It's just up the steps, Millie,” Arcadia definitely wasn't taking no for an answer this time. “You should see Jorrvaskr. The whole city grew up around it.” Milillowyn was practically manhandled into a heavy cloak made of the darkest blue fabric she had ever seen. “And this delivery is late anyway. Should have been there days ago.” Finally, a large, heavy  basket was shoved into her arms.

Before she was fully aware of it, Milillowyn was standing outside with the sound of the door closing firmly behind her. At high noon, the worst of the chill was gone from the air as long as the wind didn't blow too hard. She watched the people in the marketplace, her eyes finally resting on a fellow Bosmer. He called out to her before she could do the same. “It is good to see a sister elf in this cold place.” He waved her over with the first genuine smile since Arcadia's.

“I didn't expect to see kin here either.” It felt so good to speak Bosmeris again. Something inside her eased but also made her long for her homeland. “I am Milillowyn of the Treesong.”

His expression brightened. “Anoriath. My brother, Elrindir, and I own The Drunken Huntsman on the corner near the main gate.”

“A meat market?” She pretended not to notice the curious looks as those listening to them speak the lyrical, fast-paced language of the Wood Elves. “You follow the Meat Mandate?”

Anoriath shook his head. “Not fully possible outside the Land of Frond and Leaf.” A charming smile tugged at the left side of his mouth. “We do the best we can though. You should stop by the shop sometime soon for dinner. We'll try to create a taste of home.”

Milillowyn nodded. “I will. Thank you.” Her arms tightened around the basket trying to slip from her grasp. “May the leaves of your life never turn brown.”

 

***

 

The Wind District was much colder and lived up to its title. The sound of the water rushing around stones was calming until broken by the sound of shouting. A man, robed and hooded, stood before a shrine to Talos preaching the ways of the supposed ninth Divine to anyone that would stay still long enough.

“And there it is, friends! The ugly truth! We are the children of man! Talos is the true god of man! Ascended from flesh, to rule the realm of spirit!”

Milillowyn paused at the steps to the mead hall, her head tilted slightly toward the priest.

“The very idea is inconceivable to our Elven overlords! Sharing the heavens with us? With man? Ha! They can barely tolerate our presence on earth! Today, they take away your faith. But what of tomorrow? What then? Do the Elves take your homes? Your businesses? Your children? Your very lives?”

She lowered her head with a grimace, stray curls falling over her shoulders. She ignored the slick, cold feeling curling in her stomach. Tugging up her skirts as best she could, she took the stairs two at a time.

 

***

 

Jorrvaskr was loud, hot, and smelled of sweat. Her nose wrinkled in distaste. Above it all, the scent of roasted meat permeated the main hall. There was a flash of irritation that Humans call her people barbarians. “Is there something you need, little elf?” Milillowyn looked up and further still at one of the tallest men she had ever seen. Stern and grim faced, his eyes weighed heavily on her.

“I have a delivery from Arcadia.” A second man came up behind him, taller still and broad as a bear. He held a sword longer than she was tall, the weapon resting over his armored shoulder like a walking stick.

“When did Arcadia get an assistant?”

She bristled. “I am no assistant.”

Unexpectedly, the taller of the two men stepped forward and gently took the basket from her by curling one massive arm around it. “You expect payment for the delivery?” The other spoke, and Milillowyn was struck by how similar they looked. Twins?

“No, I will be on my way.”

 

***

 

Milillowyn found companionship in Elrindir and Anoriath. They were a balm to a wound that she had not realized gaped so freely. She learned that Elrindir cheated at cards, loved to boss his brother around since he was the oldest by a year, and may be just a little bit in love with Jenassa, the Dunmer that lived in the shop when she wasn't on assignment.

Anoriath loved to draw almost as much as he loved to hunt. He pretended to be exasperated by his brother's demands and had a much softer heart than anyone realized. For Milillowyn, she saw Anoriath twirling an arrow around his fingers as much a piece of charcoal. He was also the one that designed and painted the sign in front of the building. He admitted that some of the city's children would deface it with drawings or smear it with cow dung.

Milillowyn stood back smugly as the sign delivered a mild shock to anyone that dared touch it. “That's a handy enchantment,” Anoriath praised through laughter.

 

***

 

With her hair piled high on her head and tied with a scarf, dirt caked under her nails, and dress weather stained, she pulled potatoes from the ground. Nimriel of Pelagia Farm offered the produce at a much lower price if she picked it herself. So far, Milillowyn had a good stock of carrots, cabbage, leeks, and now potatoes. 

There was a low rumbling like distant thunder, and it took Milillowyn a few moments to realize that it wasn't the heavens that were shaking but the ground itself. The steady **thump** , **thump** , **thump** only grew louder, and she could feel the earth tremble under her. She turned in time to see the head of a giant peer over the main farmhouse. The creature hefted a club made from mammoth's bone, and Milillowyn didn't know if she should take off running or if that would draw too much attention.

An arrow whizzed by her, lodging itself in the giant's shoulder. A woman in furred armor ran past, readying another arrow. “Farkas!” She barked, “Draw it off!” Milillowyn recognized the man as the one who took her basket three weeks ago.

Another woman came around, sword and shield at the ready. Milillowyn backed off, tucking behind an outcropping near the river and watching three members of the famed Companions fight off a giant.

During the course of the fight, Milillowyn learned the archer was called Aela and the shieldmaiden was Njada. Farkas wielded a claymore with fluid grace that surprised her. The battle was all but won until another giant made himself known.

Aela was quickly running out of arrows, and Njada could hardly fight off two giants even if one of them was slowly bleeding out. A well placed arrow brought one of the giants to his knees, and Farkas cut his throat in a shower of blood.

The remaining giant roared and grunted in a language that none understood, his club swinging wildly. Njada barely avoided a direct hit, but the club shattered her shield all the same.

Farkas rolled to dodge another swing, and Aela tried to grab a few fallen arrows. Milillowyn reacted before she had time to think. A swirl of green magic engulfed Njada before the giant could crush her under his foot. The barrier sent him staggering backward.

Aela threw a dagger, the blade sinking into the giant’s shoulder.

With the giant's attention turning elsewhere, Milillowyn wrestled Njada away, not able to drag her further than around the side of the farmhouse. When Milillowyn peered around the corner, she could see the giant disarmed and swinging his arms wildly. There was an arrow sticking out of his right eye. The roars were almost deafening.

A section of the farmhouse roof splintered, sending wood raining down on her and Njada. “Let me take your dagger.” The blade was slippery with blood, but Milillowyn only needed it for a just a moment. The giant came lumbering around the corner, and Milillowyn darted forward. With as much strength as she could muster, she drove the dagger through the creature's calf, and from there, used the blade to conduct a wave of lightning from both hands.

The giant convulsed, but Milillowyn only cared about pouring as much magicka into the spell as possible. There was a grunt then a thud, but she could not see with the world blurring at the edges. Then there was nothing.

 

***

 

The world came back to her in fragments. There were voices, hushed and worried. There was the soothing feeling of healing magic and the tender care of hands smoothing her hair back from her face. The sun was high and bright in the sky when Milillowyn finally woke. Disoriented, she couldn't know how much time had passed or if it was even the same day. The room was unknown to her, small with rough wood furnishings. The exposed beams of the ceiling had recently been reinforced with steel. She blinked slowly, trying to clear the haze from her vision.

“There you are.” Arcadia's worried face came into view. “Gods, you scared ten years off my life.” She ran a hand across Milillowyn’s forehead then over her cheek.

The Elf’s tongue stuck to her mouth, which was dry as sand. A few gulps of water eased the cracked feeling in her throat. “That woman... the woman.. Njada... with the shield. Is she alright? I couldn't do both... I...”

“Shh, Millie. It's alright. Shh.” Arcadia pressed her back against the bed. “She's fine, Millie. They're all fine.” She leaned forward, carefully resting her forehead against the Wood Elf’s. “You're fine.” Her eyes closed to hide the prickle of tears.

Arcadia held her friend and felt the numbness of relief slowly seep inside. She almost lost one of the few people that she loved. Even now, after thirty-five years of friendship, there was still the faint ember of affection beyond what they had now. She wasn't one for regrets, but by the Gods, she wish that she had been braver when she was still a young woman. Arcadia let the pressures of family and tradition win out over what she felt was right. She wondered if Milillowyn still had those tiny freckles on her hip.

 

***

 

Milillowyn found herself disappointed in how long it took to recover from burning yourself up from the inside out. Mostly confined to bed, Arcadia graciously allowed her to grind some herbs and refill bottles. Beyond the shop, the town was talking about the fight, which several guards saw from the city's walls.

Unsurprisingly, Anoriath was upset with her. He sat at her bedside, his mouth set in a grim line. “Millie, you almost died.”

“I wasn't going to leave them to their deaths, Anoriath. I'm angry at myself for not getting involved sooner. You should have seen me, standing there looking like a damned fool.” Her hands twisted in the sheets. “For Oblivion's sake, I've seen war. I...” Her voice cracked.

“I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to upset you.” He carefully uncurled her white-knuckled fingers.

“And I wasn't trying to die.” Her mouth twisted. “I already had Dia cry on me, so please don't.” She rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hands. “It... I... it was just so easy. I can't explain. I started the spell and I just... couldn't let it go. It was almost euphoric.”

“Just get some rest.” Anoriath stood. “I have to get back to the stall, but Elrindir and I will be back later with dinner.” He gave her an one-armed hug before leaving.

 

***

 

After a week of bed rest, Milillowyn was itching to get out of the shop. The morning air was so cold and sharp that it burned in her chest. She closed her eyes, taking in deep lungfuls of air. Bosmer were not meant to be cooped up. She chose to watch the people for a little while, leaning against of the building's posts.

Carlotta Valentia's fruit looked especially fresh today. Then Fralia Gray-Mane began to set out her wares. There was something comforting about watching these familiar faces go about their daily routine. Anoriath appeared a little later, carefully hanging out freshly butchered meat.

“Heard about you, elf.” Milillowyn startled, her heart suddenly pounding before realizing that there was no danger. Her attention shifted to Jon Battle-Born. While she could say that he's never been rude to her, he had not been particularly kind either. Ambivalence was better that outright scorn.

“Why does everyone call me 'elf'? I have a name.” She turned to fully face him, her head tilted back but her feet firmly planted.

“You never offered.”

“You never asked, _nord_.”

A short bark of a laugh was her immediate answer. “Fair enough. I am Jon of Clan Battle-Born.”

“I am Milillowyn Treesong.” She nodded her head politely. “Auri-El shines on this, the hour of our meeting.” There was such gentle formality to her words that Jon could not help but smile a little.

“Much of Whiterun is interested in how _you_ took down a giant.” He crossed his arms, leaning back as not to loom over her.

“There is nothing to tell. The Companions did all the work.” She lowered her eyes. “I am not one for battle.” She was at the Imperial City during the Battle of the Red Ring. There was nothing great about war.

She excused herself, deciding to brave the winds of the second district for a little peace at the temple. Danica looked up the moment the doors opened but did not acknowledge her. Milillowyn's people did not revere Kynareth as much as the other gods, but this was a quiet place. There was only the sound of whispered prayer and the scent of lavender.

 

***

 

The spring slowly gave way to summer, but the summer ushered in ill tidings. It could be ignored at first, the injured soldier here and there, nameless people going to battle and never returning. Then there was the whisper of The Stormcloaks, of Ulfric of his Sons of Skyrim. Milillowyn tried to ignore the talk of civil war. Whiterun seemed to be holding its breath, then there was a battle near the Skyrim/Hammerfell/Cyrodiil border. The blood of the Stormcloaks, the Imperial Army, and the Aldmeri Dominion turned the briefly turned the land to sea.

The Clan of Gray-Mane made their choice with the Stormcloak uprising, and the Clan of Battle-Born would support none but the Imperial Empire. With that, two of the oldest, most respected, and most influential families in Skyrim spilled the war past the gates of Whiterun.

Milillowyn was sitting in the Drunken Huntsman when Avulstein Gray-Mane nearly killed Idolaf Battle-Born in the street. The guards doubled patrols after that.

 

***

 

There was a pause when Milillowyn slipped inside the Bannered Mare. This was not her usual haunt, but Anoriath and Elrindir decided to go on a hunt to get out of the city for a little while. Even Jenassa took a client that led her into Skyrim's wildernesses.

“Close the door, elf, you're letting out the heat.”

With her head lowered, she made her way across the tavern, choosing a seat in the furthest corner. Saadia took her order while she tried to ignore Hulda's dirty looks. Milillowyn couldn't help but fidget. A roar of drunken laughter nearly made her jump out of her chair. She looked up when Hulda's shadow fell across the table. “I'm going to need you to pay up front.”

Milillowyn swallowed down a knot of anger. “None of your other customers pay up front.” Her voice was stilted but at least it was even.

“You know damn well why, knife-ear.” There was a sudden hush behind them.

“Of course.” Milillowyn nodded sharply then stood. “I can go elsewhere.”

“You didn't pay for what you already ordered.”

“I don't want it,” her voice wavered slightly.

“You tree-hugging bastards are all the same. Thieves. I'll have you in the Dragonsreach dungeon for stealing, elf.”

Milillowyn fished out three gold coins, flinging them on the table. “Then take your money, snowman.” She stormed out the tavern. She stopped several feet outside the door to take in deep breaths. This wasn't the battle field. This wasn't the Imperial City.

“You could come up to Jorrvaskr, if you want.” Milillowyn looked up at Farkas with wide eyes. How long had he been standing there.

“I should just go home.”

“Food's good.” He shrugged. “Dinner's about now.” His pale eyes flicked down then away.

“I...” She smoothed her hair back from her face. “Thank you. Farkas?” Her smile was weak at best.

He nodded and his return smile was sunshine bright. Farkas wasn't entirely sure why he invited the wood elf back to the mead hall. It wasn't her fault that she was an elf. “I never really... got your name. Or you, said thank you. You saved Njada. All of us.”

“I was there. I had to help. And my name is Milillowyn.”

He gestured toward the stairs, letting her go first. “Millolin?”

She hid her smile despite her back being to Farkas. “Mill-il-lo-wyn.”

“Millwyn?” Was he doing this on purpose?

She repeated it once more, very slowly. “Can I just call you Millie?”

“Yes,” she sighed, shaking her head.

Jorrvaskr was still as bright, loud, and smelly as she remembered it. Her ears twitched. There were several people sitting at the long table, notably, Aela. “There you are, icebrain...” Aela trailed off as her gazed shifted to the tiny wood elf at his side. “Hail and well fought!”

A dark elf beat his tankard against the table. “Here, here!”

“Farkas, you bring a stranger into our hall.” Milillowyn looked at the man so alike the man at her side. “Though one that helped save your life apparently.”

“Vilkas, my brother.” Farkas said, tipping his head in his direction. The others offered up their names: Athis, (the dark elf), Torvar, Skjor, and Aela the Huntress, since they did not get a proper introduction.

Of those gathered, only Athis could say her name correctly, and she was once again dubbed 'Millie' by those present. Milillowyn ended up on a seat at the end of the table, Farkas next to her and Vilkas across from her. Aela was reliving the glory of the battle of two giants on the other end of the table. Milillowyn pretended not to notice.

“That was some unexpected bravery, elf.” Vilkas' gaze was much sharper than his brother's, his pale eyes like ice while Farkas' reminded her of cool water.

“Why?” She sat up straighter. If she was going to be insulted and humiliated twice in one night, she would at least stare down her opponent this time around.

Vilkas gave a thoughtful pause before his reply. “Most wouldn't have jumped into a fight with one giant, let alone two of them.”

Milillowyn nodded. “Perhaps.”

Dinner progressed into drinking then progressed into drinking contests. Music sprung up unexpectedly, Brill playing a lute and Torvar surprisingly skilled with a flute. Aela, Farkas, and Athis provided the tavern songs. Milillowyn could not help but tap her feet in time to the music. “Bosmer are supposed to be nimble!” cried Athis. “Give us a dance.”

Milillowyn shook her head, trying to back her way out of it. “Dance! Dance! Dance!” She looked to Vilkas for help, but he just shrugged. Athis grabbed one arm and Farkas grabbed the other, hoisting her up onto the table. “Up you go. Now we can see you, wee lass.” Torvar winked at her.

Another song started up, and Milillowyn looked out at expectant faces. She shed her cloak, gloves, and scarves, leaving it all in a heap on the floor. Her dress was bright red with gold leaf patterns. The candlelight turned her curls almost just as red, and made her skin shine like polished copper. She couldn't help but smile a little as the music took a quicker pace. They wanted to see nimble; she could do that.

She breathed in then picked up her shirts. Farkas was in awe of how she moved, fluid as water and surefooted. He watched as she avoided every cup, plate, bowl, and fork. She was small, but the billowing of her dress granted her larger presence.

Starting at one end and working her way to the other, she danced with her whole body in the movement of her arms, her hips, and her legs. It had been so long since she had last done this, and all she could think of were the solstice celebrations in Valenwood.

In the end, Farkas had to catch her as she spun a little too enthusiastically and stepped right off the table. She tried to smother her smile and her laugh behind her hands. She swayed, drunk on music and dancing, but Farkas gently held onto her arm to steady her. “Walk me home?” He helped her back into her outerwear.

 

***

 

It was strangely intimate, walking so close, and Farkas radiated heat. “You don't have to be nice to me.”

“Huh?” He shrugged. “Ain't got no reason not to be.”

“You're not one those 'Skyrim for the Nords' types?”

“Should I be?”

“You do realize that there may be another war.”

He shrugged again. “Don't mean nothing to me. I fight for the Companions.”

“That's...” She trailed off, not sure where to go with that thought. She was used to feeling like she had to fight for the right to exist. She was used to people looking at her and seeing pointed ears. “Thank you,” she said finally. “For everything.” She left him at the foot of the stairs with a kiss on the cheek.

 

***

 

Milillowyn heard the news as soon as she finished delivering potions to the temple. There was an assassination attempt at Dragonsreach, not on Jarl Balgruuf, but on Irileth, his dark elf Housecarl. The immediate rumor was that it was a move by the Stormcloaks to begin destabilizing the region. Milillowyn saw it for what it was—hate.

Two nights later, a group of drunken Nords threw bottles through the windows of the Drunken Huntsman that burst into flame. Milillowyn hid under a table, her hands over her head, and the explosions of the White-Gold Tower drowned out everything else in her head.

Elrindir and Anoriath frantically pumped water from the kitchen to throw over the fire. Calm and swift, Jenassa shot a succession of three arrows through the windows. One man was shot in the shoulder, another in the chest, and the third arrow buried itself into one man's groin. It took a combination of water and ice magic to stop the fire from spreading.

The Drunken Huntsman mostly suffered smoke damage and burnt furniture. Jenassa stayed to help with cleanup, and Nimriel came up from Pelagia Farm to help with repairs and restocking. Surprisingly, Adrianne and Ulfberth donated some old furnishings, and Belethor sold them wood at a discount to lay down new floors. Milillowyn inlaid the new windows, secretly working her enchantments into the building. None of the elves were seriously injured, but they were all shaken.

Milillowyn returned to Arcadia's Cauldron grimy and soot stained. It took two days for her to stop coughing from inhaling so much smoke. Arcadia was properly outraged and offered her services to the other elves free of charge. Jenassa only had a few scrapes, but the wood elf brothers had burns up and down their arms.

 

***

 

Even the blustery wind couldn't keep Milillowyn inside today. Her clothing whipped around her as she climbed the stairs to the Wind District. Elrindir and Anoriath wanted to keep their heads down, but they deserved better. The air grew steadily colder as she took the wet, slick stairs up to Dragonsreach Palace. The guards almost didn't let her inside, but they had no real reason to detain her.

The palace could never compare to the sheer majesty of the White-Gold Tower, but it had a beauty all its own. Six months, and she had never seen the inside of the famed dragon prison. Fires blazed in steel braziers, the heat almost making her flinch. Through the golden haze, she could see three of the city's most important people—Jarl Balgruuf the Greater, Steward Proventus Aveicci, and Housecarl Irileth.

She was waylaid near the top of the stairs by a beast of a man sweating mead and smelling of steel and cold. “Hold, elf.”

Milillowyn drew herself up to her full height, the top of her head level with his sternum. “I seek an audience with the Jarl.”

“My brother's not entertaining visitors today, little elf.” She bit her tongue to keep her angry words behind her teeth.

“Isn't the steward's job to inform me of such, _nord_?” She sidestepped him, skipping the last three steps.

It was Irileth that stopped her next time. The Dunmer was an imposing woman, tall and dark with eyes red as the infamous mountain of her people. “What is your business?” Her hand rested on the hilt of her sword.

“I seek an audience with Jarl Balgruuf.” She could tell Irileth was going to turn her way, but the man himself waved her forward.

“Let her speak, Irileth.” Milillowyn approached slowly, her hands smoothing over the heavy blue cloak that Arcadia had gifted to her. “I don't believe I've seen you before, wood elf.”

Her fingernails bit into her palms. “No, my lord. I am Milillowyn Treesong. I currently reside with Arcadia Callidus. I want to speak with you about the fire at the Drunken Huntsman three nights ago.”

“Nasty business, that. Three men were badly injured.”

“Yes, three of the men that tried to burn the shop down.”

“Two of those men nearly died.”

“Those men tried to kill us. Anoriath and Elrindir will have to keep the shop closed until the repairs are done. Their livelihood is compromised. They are citizens of Whiterun. They deserve justice and compensation.”

Balgruuf leaned forward, the light making him shine like gold. “You were there that night?”

“Yes, and a Dunmer ranger named Jenassa.”

“Those men's families could make some of those same demands.”

“Four of the city's seven elves were nearly burned alive. You can't call that anything but hate. Your own Housecarl was attacked two days before that.” She drew in a deep, calming breath. “I'm not asking for blood, my lord, but this can't go unanswered.”

“Tensions in the city are already strained as it is with the threat of war and the aggravations of old hostilities.”

“Then you'll do _nothing_ , my lord?”

“There is nothing to do to make this better. Those men have already paid a blood-price, so to speak.” He leaned back once more, and Milillowyn stood ramrod straight, her expression carefully blank.

“Then you have killed us as surely as if you held the blade.”

There was an indignant shout from the Jarl's brother, Hrongar. “Hey, now, elf...” Balgruuf waved aside his outburst.

Irileth stepped forward, her countenance still stern and her hand still on her sword, but when she spoke it was with a tone that belied her actions, “My Jarl, this is a serious matter. Skyrim has enough problems without our people murdering each other in the streets.”

“That... is true, Irileth.” Balgruuf looked to the elf at his side, where she has stood since they were youths barely able to swing a sword.

Milillowyn didn't tell the brothers about her visit to the palace; they were worried enough. With all the thoughts crowding her head, the terrible dreams, and the war visions, she murmured fervent prayers to Auri-El, Y'ffre, and Mara that she had not made things worse.

 

***

 

The clash of swords and excited shouts brought Milillowyn around the back of Jorrvaskr. She carried this week's supply of potions in a large wicker basket that was determined to slip from her arms. It appeared as though all the Companions were crowded around tables to watch a sparring match between Vilkas and Farkas.

Torvar, Athis, and Njada cheered for Farkas while Aela, Skjor, and Vignar rallied round Vilkas. Milillowyn set her burden on the closest table which happened to be laden with empty mead and ale bottles. Leaning against the wall, she watched the twins battle it out. Vilkas was slightly shorter and leaner than his brother, therefore faster. His greatsword was not as heavy, sending Farkas on the defensive. Farkas had sheer size and strength on his side, and every blow he landed shook his brother.

Minutes ticked by and it appeared as though neither brother could get the upper hand. Quietly, Milillowyn rooted for Farkas. He surprised her every time they met. He was the gentler of the two, quieter, but fierce. To have his friendship was to have his unwavering loyalty. She respected Aela and Vilkas, but she did not like the way they talked down to Farkas. He was a man of few words, simple, but not stupid.

Everyone was so focused on the fight she wasn't sure if anyone even noticed her. With a mischievous smirk, she started to weave a simple Courage spell. She had to time it just right to hit the intended target. With a flick of her fingers, Farkas took on the faintest tinge of light, easy to dismiss as a trick of the eyes or the glare of the sun.

Farkas dodged Vilkas' downward swing, then their swords met with a mighty crack. There was a cry of surprise as half of Vilkas' sword lay on the ground. Farkas looked down at the broken blade with comically wide eyes while Vilkas stared at his brother. “Shor's Bones... Farkas.”

Torvar slapped Farkas on the back with a holler. “Whata battle!”

“Um, sorry, brother.” Farkas rubbed the back of his neck with a sheepish smile.

Vilkas bit back a sigh. “Damned good fight, brother.” He smacked Farkas on the shoulder before picking up his broken blade. Eorlund was going to have his work cut out for him.

The Companions slowly cleared the area, trickling off in various directions. Farkas stopped abruptly seeing Milillowyn standing quietly by the doors. “Hey, Millie.”

“You fight well,” she replied with a grin.

“Yeah, well... I know magic when I feel it.” He sheathed his sword. “Was you?”

Milillowyn shrugged.

“You're, ya know... an elf.”

“Well, it's true that all elves have some skill with the clever craft.” She gestured to the basket. “This week's delivery.”

Farkas looked down at her as if seeing her for the first time. A soft smile touched the corners of his mouth. “Have you been to a Harvest's End festival?”

Milillowyn blinked slowly, a little thrown by the sudden subject change. “Not in Skyrim. I've been here since the end of First Seed.”

“The whole city celebrates.” He shrugged. “You should go.”

“I will look for you then.” With a smile, she turned to go. There were other delivers to be made.

 

***

 

The Drunken Huntsmen reopened a few days before the festival. Most of the building had been repaired, remodeled, and redecorated. Milillowyn observed the changes with a pleased eye. Jenassa sat at her usual table, a tankard at her elbow and a map spread out in front of her.

Anoriath scooped her up into a hug, swinging her around before putting her back on her feet. “I don't know what you did, but thank you.” His smile eased away weeks of stress. “Elrindir should be down in a moment.”

“It was nothing. I think... we have more support than you realized.” Milillowyn kissed his cheek. “We should do something special for Adrianne and Ulfberth though.”

“Of course. Those two are a force all their own.” Anoriath pulled absently at his beard. “I remember when they got married. Don't think half the town slept for a week.” Milillowyn smacked his arm with a laugh.

Elrindir joined them with platters of roasted meat. The four elves ate and drank and talked and laughed well into the small hours.

 

***

 

Milillowyn stood just outside the inn taking in deep breaths to clear some of the fuzz from her mind. Elrindir joined her. “I... have a question.” He paused. “Or maybe just seek some advice.”

“Of course, Rin.”

“I want to ask Jenassa to marry me.” He fiddled with one of the small braids hanging over his shoulder. “I don't know much about Dunmer marriage.”

“I believe you may be asking the wrong person. There are only two other Dunmer in this entire city, and I don't see either Irileth or Athis having this talk with you.”

“You don't know anything?” There was a desperate edge to his voice.

“Ah, well... they have their Tribunal Temple, which worships the three 'good Daedra', Azura, Mephala, and Boethiah. The ceremony involves that.” She sighed. “That's traditional Dunmeri religion. Most I've met outside of Morrowind revere the Eight Divines. And you have now exhausted my knowledge of Dunmeri religion.”

“That's... slightly more than I knew already.”

“You could do it the Nord way.” She shrugged. “Might be easier. Or in the way of our kin.”

“I think if I present her with a necklace made of bone and amber wrapped in fragrant leaves, she might take it the wrong way. I don't know if you've seen Janassa wield a blade...”

Milillowyn snickered. “You could always present her with ash yams and coda flowers and hope for the best.”

“You are the worst sort of friend.”

“Do let me know how it goes, Rin. I'm rooting for you.”

 

***

 

Arcadia was insistent on dressing Milillowyn for the Harvest's End festival, and the wood elf would never admit, not even on pain of death, that she whined like someone a quarter of her age. “I don't understand why I have to do this.” She tugged at the bodice of her dress, which was traditional Nordic style in blue, silver, and white.

“Oh, really.” Arcadia tugged at one of her unruly curls, which she currently fighting into an elaborate up-do. “Does the name 'Farkas' ring any bells.”

Milillowyn made a pained sound. “I should have never told you that.”

“You like him. That's nothing wrong with that, Millie.”

She cut her eyes at Arcadia. “You're not serious. He's a _Nord_ , an elite member of the Companions, which are the most celebrated warriors in Skyrim.”

“Was there a point in there?” She gave a particularly forceful tug on the braid she was weaving.

“That I'm a Bosmer. I'm a mage. I'm an representation of everything wrong. I am the enemy.” She swallowed hard. “Nords and Elves have a long, long bitter history full of nothing but unending war and hatred across four eras.”

Arcadia hummed softly. “Well, as far as I know, wood elves have never instigated a war against Skyrim.”

“That doesn't matter, Dia. They look at me and see a pair of pointed ears. They see large, alien eyes, and magic, and cultures they don't understand.” She heaved a tremendous sigh that seemed too large for her body. “It... doesn't matter.”

“It does. You deserve to be happy.” She gently nudged Milillowyn with her elbow. “I remember what you were like after the war. How haunted you were. You would wake up screaming or just get lost in your own head for days at a time.” She frowned. “I never should have left you in Chorrol.”

“I wish you'd left me sooner. How many times did my screaming almost get us killed?”

“No. You deserve this. You deserve to be happy.” Arcadia embraced her. “You survived, Millie. You survived the Sack of the Imperial City, the Occupation, and you survived the Battle of the Red Ring. You survived the war and everything that came after it.”

Milillowyn rubbed furiously at her eyes, hating the sting of tears. She didn't want to cry, not ever again. “I can't do this, Dia. I...”

“Stop, Milillowyn. Just, stop. Please.” Arcadia moved around to face her, her hands cradling Milillowyn's face. “Go to the festival, tiny fairy. Dance. Drink. Sing. Eat. And by all the Gods, please kiss that dumb Nord. He's starting to look like a kicked puppy.” That startled a laugh out of Milillowyn.

 

***

 

The whole city was lit up for the Harvest's End festival. It seemed like every torch, lantern, brazier, and candle was burning for the celebration. Light and music poured from open windows, merchants lined the streets, and everything smelled like food.

Milillowyn watched a group of children run through the crowds with streamers and bells. Sabjorn and his employees from Honningbrew Meadery were doing a good job of getting the townsfolk inebriated. Elrindir and Anoriath roasted whole pigs and sides of beef. Carlotta, Severio Pelagia, Nimriel, and Wilmuth represented the farms and a bountiful harvest. Belethor and Sigurd sold spiced drinks and candies.

The night was mild and the moons were so bright that they nearly outshone the stars. Unsurprisingly, Jorrvaskr was even more lively than the rest of Whiterun. Milillowyn practically had to dance around revelers right into the mead hall. The Companions feasted and partied like no other. Even the elusive Kodlak Whitemane was present, sitting at the far end of the hall with a flagon.

“There you are, lass.” Skjor looked down at her, his arms crossed. “Go talk to Farkas before he drowns in his cup.”

She found Farkas sitting behind the building strumming absently on a lute. “I didn't know you played,” she said over his shoulder.

He turned so suddenly, his chair scraped loud enough to be heard over the music. “Millie.” He looked down at the instrument. “It's nothing.” Her eyes looked like polished emeralds in the light, and he said as much before his mind caught up with his mouth.

She laughed. “Sweet talker.” This was the first time that she seen Farkas completely out of armor. She didn't even see a weapon. Milillowyn figured the armor made Farkas larger than he truly was, but it was not so, and she felt utterly dwarfed even though he was still sitting. She watched a mottled blush spread across Nord-fair skin. “And ever is thy sight a joy.” Oh, the blush continued to spread.

Farkas was at a loss for words, his fingers wrapped around the neck of the lute a little too tightly. “Is... everything... good?”

“It is.” She pulled up a chair next to his. “Play something for me?” Farkas nodded, figuring that at least that didn't require words. He had a skill that baffled most people, at least the few that actually knew he played. She watched long, calloused fingers pluck the strings, and couldn't help the twinge of disappointment she felt at song's end.

“Oh. I got you something.” Farkas carefully set the lute aside before reaching under his chair. “Carlotta Valentia's little girl tried to teach me.” Milillowyn stared a crown of white and blue mountain flowers. It was a little lopsided, the stems too tight in some places and too loose in others, but she smiled all the same. “I mean... I figured, ya know elves like flowers, right?”

She took the crown from his hands, carefully arranging it over her elaborate curls. “It's perfect.” Milillowyn took his face in her hands as Arcadia's earlier words burned inside her. “Thank you, Farkas.” She kissed him, and he melted against her. His arms easily circled her waist, pulling her in. His mouth slackened against hers just enough for her to taste.

Eventually, she pulled back, her hands tangled in his dark hair. His eyes looked silver in the night. She kissed him once more, just gently this time. She rested her forehead against his. “Was that okay?”

Farkas buried his face in the crook of her neck. “Yeah.”

 

 


End file.
